Tales From The Triangle
by Mason Havens
Summary: A man trying to get to his wedding is suddenly stranded on an island in the Bermuda Triangle that holds many lost secrets. Read and Review please. This is only the first chapter and i will write more when i have the time. Enjoy!


Tale of the Triangle By Mason Havens 1/17/04  
  
The Crow's Nest closed at three and it was eleven, so Jack figured he would have a few hours to burn his shitty life away with alcohol. He walked up to the line of bar stools and slowly examined them all and looked up at the big breasted barmaid glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He seats him self near the woman, next to a large passed out man who smelled and looked like shit. Jack beckons the barmaid over, "Hi, uh. Yaw' got anything to eat?"  
  
The bar tender seemed annoyed, but used to the unflatery from customers. "Yeah, we got your average grub from a bar." Jack shoots back with, "That bad, eh'?" he laughs. She laughs with him and ask him what he wants and he orders a tuna melt with fries and a miller. She scribbles it down and belts the order out to her fry cooks awaiting work in the kitchen.  
  
Jack was a hardworking man with a good home life, but he like to be alone sometimes. There would be times when he couldn't sleep, so he would just go to a bar or the Denny's down the street from his house. He always thought his life could have been more. He was a comic book writer who had been writing the same title for about seven year. The book had its good and bad times. His wife was beautiful and only two years younger than him. She kept him stable. A stay at home mom who was happy what she was doing. That "feminazi" bullshit didn't faze her. Their two kids, Robert 16 and Zara 12, were the pride of Jacks life. He loved the type of job he was in, but he was just stuck in a rut. Peter Parker Spider Man has been a dormant title for three years. He wanted to move on and do a fresh book. Inspiration was not hitting him full force or even at all. He told his publisher, at the last meeting, that he wanted his own creator own book and all they said was show us a concept. And this concept is yet to be put forward.  
  
About ten thirty that evening, Jack had left his house to think. His wife knew he was going through some hard times with ideas. Sometimes she and the kids would try to give him plots or ideas, but they weren't edgy enough. This bar was new. "Tits, ass, beer and the game", that was the slogan. He saw it on the local channel that morning. His usual restaurant of choice at night was Denny's, but that slogan was too good to pass up.  
  
Jack dove into his meal as soon as it arrived. It was almost as if he was making out with the sandwich. The door to the Crow's Nest let in a sweet, warm summers nights breeze through the bar. Jack paused for a second to take in the change in atmosphere, and then proceeded with his food.  
The new arrival looked weathered and stunk of the ocean. He seated himself next to jack and asked the bar tender for the largest pitcher of beer they had and a bowl of peanuts in a Horace voice. Jack, finished with his tuna melt and half way through his fries, stopped and straightened up to examine his new bar stool neighbor. The man looks back at Jack and asks, "What's your profession?" Jack replies, "Comic writer, ever read Peter Parker Spider Man?" "No, no. From where I just returned comic books are a bit rare." The man says longingly, "and where is it you come from, France?"  
  
Laughing, the man shoots back, "well no, I returned from. the Caribbean, yeah." The man sounds nervous and unsure. "You don't sound very positive, what you can't remember?" The man seriously trying to recollect in his head the past accounts of his life he responds with, "Somewhat. It was either a bad dream or hell." He stares off into the bar. Jack is now intrigued by his fellow bar mate. "It sounds as if you have a tale to tell. If you can remember?" Jack says in a cocky manner.  
  
"Just let me reach back into my mind and find where the nightmare all began. It all started with a marriage. A girl I met in college when I was learning to become a teacher. Kirsten Sealy, she was like an elf or something, just amazing. Her family was made of money and they arranged this huge wedding in Costa Rica. I was teaching U.S. history at John Byrne High in Gainesville at the time. We were to be married in February, on Valentines Day, finals were coming up and I couldn't leave. Kirsten and her family went ahead to set up the whole thing. While I stayed and finished up the first semester of the school year. My family was to arrive in Costa Rica two weeks before the wedding. I was going to fly by my self in my small bush plane that I built, it was like my baby. I wanted to get there at the same time as my family, but I had a special present for her. My day was finished at three ten, but before I closed up my room I had to do something. I always kept a portrait of Kirsten on my desk. I hadn't seen her in four days; I needed to look at her picture one last time before I left. She was so beautiful." The man trailed off, he was lost in love. "That's a lame love story." Jack rudely blurts out. The storyteller replies, "No it isn't finished. This tale is far from over." By this time in his story a small group of people have clustered around him at the bar, including the bar tender.  
  
"Now like I said before she was beautiful and I was two days away from seeing her. When I was finally up in the air it felt different, like it had never felt before. But I ignored this as any omen or bad sign. The first five hours of flight were uneventful, until I was six miles west of Cuba. A slight tremor of turbulence shook my plane. I started to fly low, it got worse. This was bizarre. I started to look for a place to land. When I was getting lower I spotted an island about twenty miles ahead of me. I didn't think much of it at the time, but there are not islands between Cuba and Costa Rica.  
  
I landed in a flat plain it was rough. When flying in I looked for any signs of life. Nothing around, the communication on my radio was dead. After I landed I took some things out of the plane that I might have needed. Then I tried to call Kirsten, a dead signal. I swore out loud, fuck. Why did this have to happen right before my wedding day. I started to look around the area looking for help; I tried to not stray far. The sun was getting brighter and brighter, morning was here. I felt extremely tired and restless. The flight took it out of me. So I decided to sleep, I always kept a small tent in the back of my plane; you never know when you would need it. I set up the tent and I was a sleep inside of it almost immediately.  
  
I woke up to the violent shaking of my tent. Kirsten? My mind was still in Gainesville. I suddenly remembered I was far from sunny northern Florida. The shaking stopped. Muffled talking began and I could here someone rummaging though luggage. I shot up out of my tent. To my surprise a large norseman in full Viking attire was standing in front of me staring me down. To confuse my numb mind even further, an Englishman holding a sixteenth century rival stood next to him. They both looked at me as if nothing was happening. I was about to shit myself. 


End file.
